


Tuesday

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Soulmates, Unspecified Anxiety Disorder, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>that cliched au where everything's in black and white until you meet your soulmate</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fucked for life

**Author's Note:**

> for iandebbie on tumblr, for reminding me how important anxiety disorder mickey is.  
> i wrote in this in one day on a bottle of a champagne, so happy valentine's day! i'll do part two tomorrow

          Tuesday was always the worst day of the week at the Milkovich house. Mickey always tried to avoid the entire street that day, just in case someone came stumbling out onto the front walk and saw him. Since Terry did most of his business on the weekends, the fervor of dealing and drinking died down a little during the week. He was usually still riding the high on Monday, and Wednesdays he sold coke to the kids at the East side prep school, and by Thursday it was almost the weekend again. So all Mickey really had to do was avoid the house on Tuesdays, because that’s when Terry got antsy.

          He skipped school more often on that particular day each week, soaking up his time in the house before he left around noon, which gave him about an hour before Terry tended to wake up from his half-hungover, half-still-drunk stupor. He’d spend the morning watching the daytime gameshows on TV or making himself a special breakfast, one he could take time to make and eat because no one was around to steal any of it off his plate. He even sort of liked Tuesdays, because it was the only day he gave himself to honestly relax.

          Except, of course, when Mandy fucked it all up.

          He’d spent the last half hour meticulously creating a true masterpiece of an omelet, filled up with three different kinds of meat, cheddar and mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, and scallions. He’d put in a little bit of milk to make it fluffier, and cooked it just to the right side of too yellow. He had just thrown himself onto the couch and flicked the channel to Family Feud, ready to spend a long time savoring his breakfast, when someone smacked him across the back of the head and threw themselves over the couch, landing with a slight bounce beside him.

          “Jesus Christ!” Mickey shouted out, automatically curling away from the person, and he hated how his heart had kicked into overdrive. He flinched; any sign of fear usually resulted in a harsh punch to the arm or chest or jaw, and a sharp, “What the fuck are you so scared of, huh? Pussy!” But then he looked over, it was just his stupid sister, wearing just a t-shirt and underwear and with a shit-eating grin on her face.

          “Hey, shithead,” Mandy said, and she leaned over to nab a piece of shredded cheddar off his plate where it hadn’t melted into the omelet properly. He jerked his food away, slapping at her wrist, but she had already secured some of his breakfast, and she popped it into her mouth triumphantly.

          “What the fuck?” he snapped. “Don’t you got school or something?”

          “Don’t _you_?” she shot back. He glared at her until she sighed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I was darkening the streaks in my hair. Pissed you didn’t notice,” she added, smirking again, and he almost threw his plate at her head.

          Out of everyone in his family, Mickey was the only one who still saw the world in literal shades of gray. Everyone, from his siblings to his teachers to the Lifetime movies he caught the tail end of sometimes when he was channel surfing, swore up and down that the universe would burst into color as soon as he first touched his soulmate. A brush on the arm, a kiss, a rough shove in the chest, anything—any skin-to-skin contact was enough. But having only ever seen the world in black and white, Mickey didn’t even really understand what color _was_ , and he was starting to think that the entire thing was just an international practical joke aimed directly at him. Even Mandy had found her “soulmate” two months ago, some kid from the Northside that swore he was going to take her away when she turned eighteen. Christ, even his kid sister had her future secured—Mickey was twenty and for him everything was still just varying levels of dull gray.

          Pathetic. Statistically, he should have met The One by eighteen at least; there were enough dating services and online quizzes to virtually guarantee it.

          Of course, it didn’t really bother him. He wasn’t some grand romantic—that little pang in his stomach whenever somebody mentioned colors didn’t have to mean anything if he didn’t want it to.

          He shoved at Mandy’s arm, knocking her over onto her side. “Shut up,” he grumbled. She laughed, and he thought maybe the gray streaks standing out from her black hair _did_ seem a little darker. She kept calling those streaks blue and purple, but those words held no concrete meaning for him. He couldn’t really see anything different, anyway.

          He turned back to Family Feud and his omelet, but the cheese seemed to have gone sour.

 

          The following Tuesday Mandy went to school on time. Mickey all but offered to drive her there, making sure he had the house to himself this time. He unearthed pancake mix from the back of the closet and managed two from scratch, but he burned both of them and ended up giving up and digging the frozen waffles out of the freezer. They were good—he upended half the maple syrup bottle over them—and he got through two episodes of Jeopardy before the front door slammed open. He jerked his head around, peering not towards the newcomer but down the hall in the other direction, but his dad’s bedroom door remained closed so he figured he was still in the clear. He settled back against the cushions while Mandy trudged over to join him, dropping her backpack on the coffee table and slouching into the seat beside him.

          “Why are you here? Class isn’t out yet,” Mickey said, eyes fixed on the show.

          “There was some assembly,” said Mandy, rolling her eyes. “Something about don’t do drugs and play nice with children, or something.”

          Mickey grunted, not really listening, and passed her the joint he’d been smoking. She took a hit before passing it back, then pushed herself to her feet. She shoved past him, kicking at his ankles when he refused to move his legs to give her room, and called over her shoulder, “I’m making popcorn, want some?”

          “Yeah,” Mickey shouted back. “Hey, you got any rolling papers? I’m out.”

          “In my backpack,” said Mandy. The microwave beeped a few times, so she must have put the snack in. Then she said, “I think I shoved them under the cover of my English notebook.”

          “Which one’s that?”

          “The green one.”

          Mickey huffed out at that extremely unhelpful hint, but she didn’t seem to have noticed that she’d said something wrong because she didn’t elaborate. He sighed and leaned forward to riffle through her things, pulling out a few journals at random and flipping through them.

          Mickey gave up after a bit, finishing off his joint and watching people answer questions onscreen. The microwave beeped again after a few minutes and Mandy ambled back in carrying a bowl and settling it between her and her brother on the couch.

          “Hey, you find the stuff?”

          “No,” he mumbled, not looking at her.

          She made a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “Did you even look?”

          “Yes, I fucking looked, fuck you very much!” Mickey snapped, turning on her. “They weren’t in there!”

          “Yes they are! I lit up yesterday in the bathroom at school, and then the dean came in and I shoved them into the only books I had on me!”

          “Well, I didn’t see them.”

          “Did you check the green notebook?” She looked like she was about to snap at him some more, but then she froze unexpectedly. He turned to look at her when she didn’t go on, but upon noticing her shocked and pitying expression, he immediately shut down. She looked sorry for him; he wanted to hit her.

          “Shut up,” he said roughly, turning back to his show.

          “I’m sorry,” she said, and the worst part was that she sounded absolutely serious.

          “Shut the fuck up,” he said, more emphatically so she’d get the hint.

          Luckily, Mandy seemed to feel that one apology was sufficient. She didn’t say anything else, and after a minute or so he relaxed, satisfied that the conversation was over. They turned back to the television, and after a few minutes, sunk properly into the game show. They started shouting out the answers before the contestants could answer and taking bets on who would win before the game ended, and the conversation faded into nothing.

          “Hey,” said Mandy during a commercial break, the first segue into a non-gameshow-related conversation they had had in an hour, “my friend’s sleeping over tonight, so don’t come out naked in the morning.”

          “No promises.”

          “Ew, I’m serious.” She pulled a face. “Actually, don’t come out naked ever, thanks.”

          Mickey rolled his eyes, shoving the last handful of popcorn into his mouth. He didn’t bother swallowing before he asked, “Who’s coming over, anyway?”

          “Ian Gallagher. You know, from that family with like twenty kids. The ginger. Anyway, he’s just this guy I’m seeing.”

          “Guy you’re seeing to keep the creeps away or guy you’re seeing as in I should wear headphones to bed?”

          Mandy smacked at his arm. “To keep the creeps away, you perv!”

          “Oh, like you’ve never fucked in a full house before?”

          “Like you haven’t either?” she shot back. “You hypocrite! By the way, I don’t know who your girlfriend is, but tell her to keep her fucking moaning down.” Mickey flushed; he didn’t think he’d been _that_ loud, but he’d been experimenting with ben wa beads the other night and it was hard to shut up. At least he apparently sounded like a fucking girl when he got into it, which was just icing on the cake. Mandy didn’t seem to notice anything off about his reaction, because she went on, “And I hope you’re not exclusive, because I found some dude porno magazine she left here.”

          “Oh, shit,” he muttered, and he was suddenly glad that Mandy could be pretty oblivious about problems that didn’t directly affect her. “Yeah, I’ll uh, give that back to her. You still got it on you?”

          “Fuck no, I’m keeping it,” said Mandy, and she gave him a horrible twisted smile.

          “Bitch.”

          “Jackass.”

          One day, maybe on his deathbed, he’d tell Mandy that they had gotten off to the same gay porn. Today he just had to grit his teeth and deal with losing his favorite magazine.

          “Anyway, I should go shower or something,” Mandy continued, rolling to her feet. She jerked her chin at the television. “Tell me who wins, yeah?”

          He flipped her off. She stood there for a second, appraising him, but just as he was about to ask her what the fuck she was looking at, she reached into her backpack and threw something on his lap. Before he could react, she disappeared into her room.

          He looked down. It was a little packet of rolling papers.

          Mickey groaned and threw his head back against the couch. Fucking Mandy, with her fucking gestures and her fucking tendency to care about him. He was so going to kill her.

          He finished out his gameshow marathon and headed out for a smoke just as he heard his father stirring in his bedroom. His heart beat violently against his chest as he slipped out the front door, half-running like he was six years old again and booking it down the dark hallway to his room at night, scared something was going to get him while his back was turned. He relaxed a little once he made it safely outside, though not completely, and if he shuffled a little quicker down the street than was natural, or glanced over his shoulder every few steps, at least no one was around to see.

          Mickey stayed out for a few hours. He wanted to give Terry enough time to get bored at home and head out to the Alibi, and Iggy and Colin enough time to go out and start dealing by their usual spot the way they do most afternoons. Mickey headed down to the lot of abandoned buildings that he frequented, deciding to get in an afternoon’s worth of shooting practice before he started to crave dinner.

          His temper got steadily worse the longer he practiced; he was an alright shot, but he wasn’t as good as his siblings. Even Iggy, who had never been able to aim to save his life, had surpassed him in the past year or so. Although he would rather test his shitty aim right against his own skull than admit it, Mickey knew the reason behind it, too.

          When they were kids, Terry had taken all of them out to this grassy field near their house and set them all up with pistols.  He was usually a little drunk, so his advice was never great. Mickey still remembered it though, even now, his father’s words echoing around his head as his aim got steadily more erratic the more irritated he became: “Alright, ya shitheads, let’s go. Put ‘em up, put ‘em up, let me see them! What the fuck are you shootin’ at? Let’s go, just pick a spot and fuckin’ shoot at it!”

          Iggy had never been able to follow Terry’s advice very well, and he was always the worst shot of them all—until last year, when he had started dating this pretty brunette and his world had turned a million new colors. Suddenly _he_ was trying to give _Mickey_ advice, because Mickey had just become the worst shot in his entire family.

          _“Just pick a spot and fuckin’ shoot at it!”_

          The problem was that everything just looked like a wall of gray when the world was still black and white.

          Mickey didn’t even _want_ anything but those shades of gray. As soon as someone found out that he could see colors, they would want to know who his soulmate was. And as soon as they found out that his soulmate, whomever it turned out to be, had a dick—well, Mickey would be in deeper shit than he cared for. He almost hoped that he would _never_ find his soulmate. Love mostly sounded like nothing but trouble.

          Mickey fired nearly nonstop for two and a half hours, but he still only hit his exact target about fifty percent of the time. He went home fuming.

 

The front door was unlocked when he arrived, and he could hear voices coming from inside. He hesitated, not sure if he really wanted to see any of his family at the moment, before he remembered that Mandy had a friend coming over. He sighed, resigning himself to an evening with company, and pushed open the door.

          They were spread out on the couch, eating pizza rolls and playing video games, when Mickey stepped into the living room. He’d seen Gallagher before, he realized; had even beaten up his brother a few times. The kid was tall but had started filling out over the past year or so. Mickey was pretty sure that he was the antithesis of a Milkovich—sweet, loving, loyal, and pretty much every other characteristic ever attributed to a dog—so he wasn’t entirely sure what Mandy was doing with him, but they looked happy laying all over each other and arguing about which superhero could win in a fight, so he decided to leave it. He paused to swipe a pizza roll as he passed, nodding at the pair of them.

          “Douchebags,” he acknowledged, because he was still riled up and he wanted to syphon off his excess irritation.

          “Assface,” Mandy shot back.

          He smirked and headed for his room. At least he never missed the mark at home.

          He barely kicked off his shoes before collapsing onto the bed, sinking quickly into a short nap. He was only pulled back to the waking world when the sound of a toilet flushing cut through his dreamless sleep about an hour later.

          “What the fuck?”

          He sat up on his bed, still fully dressed and not even under the covers, rubbing at his eyes to try to focus on the figure in his room. The person spoke before he was awake enough to recognize him.

          “Sorry.” It was Ian, stage-whispering as though that would somehow help. “Mandy was in your other bathroom.”

          Mickey just stared at him, and Ian looked back apologetically. He seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, Mickey croaked out, “What are you still doing in my room?”

          “Shit,” Ian said, startling. “Uh…I’ll go.”

          “Then fucking go! Jesus,” Mickey said, waving his hands at Ian, who gave one more jerky nod before leaving the room slower than any sane person faced with a grumpy Mickey Milkovich should.

          Mickey pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to shake himself awake enough to go make himself dinner. He eventually summoned the energy and made his way into the kitchen, found some leftover chicken in the back of the fridge, and threw all of it into the microwave.

          Mandy and Ian were back to playing video games in the living room, and once his food was ready Mickey threw himself into the chair next to the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table and digging in, watching their game while he ate.

          Mandy was a very vocal player; she kept yelling obscenities at Ian, who was relatively quiet but looked over at her every now and again, amused.

          “Fuck you, what are you doing?” Mandy shouted. “Move, Jesus Christ! Come help me! Are you _deaf_ , Ian? Get your ass over here, I’m getting slaughtered!”

          “Shut up,” said Ian, as his character onscreen jumped over a stack of crates and opened fire on the enemies hailing bullets down on Mandy’s avatar. “Fuck, get out of the way. I almost shot you in the head.”

          “What are you doing?” Mandy snapped. “Back up, back up. Grab that gun— _pick up that guy’s gun_ —not him! The guy in the black hat!”

          “They’re _all_ in black hats,” Ian gritted out. Mickey noted that his jaw had tightened noticeably.

          “Oh—shit,” Mandy said, but she wasn’t looking at the screen this time. Her fingers slipped off her controller and one of the enemy soldiers shot her square in the forehead, but she had turned to grab at Ian’s arm and was no longer paying the game any attention. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

          “What?” Mickey interrupted loudly, and they both whipped their heads towards him like they’d forgotten he was in the room.

          “Nothing,” Mandy said, at the same time that Ian said, “I can’t see colors.”

          “Oh,” said Mickey. He paused, then went back to shoveling food into his mouth. He wasn’t about to admit that he couldn’t either. “Weird. You eighteen yet?”

          “No,” said Ian, his mouth set. His chin stuck out obstinately.

          “You’ll find someone,” said Mandy sympathetically, running a hand down his arm. “You still have a few months.”

          “I know,” Ian said shortly. “Jesus, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I even fucking care.”

          Mickey gave a short laugh. “Damn right.”

          Ian studied him for a moment; Mickey shot him an annoyed look at his attention, but Ian seemed unfazed. He watched him like he knew _exactly_ why Mickey was agreeing so empathetically.

          Oblivious to them, Mandy rolled her eyes. “Eighteen isn’t definite anyway,” she said. “It’s just an average. Not like it means anything.”

          “Easy for you to say,” said Ian, kicking lightly at her shin. “You’ve already found Mr Perfect Dream Guy. He buy you a ring yet or what? Maybe got a house picked out?”

          “Shut up,” Mandy laughed, shoving back at him. “Let’s just play, alright? Shithead.”

          Ian grinned and they picked up their controllers again. Mickey sat with them for a little while, but he spent more time glancing over at Ian than he did watching their game. They got three more rounds in before Mickey got up to get a beer, but he barely got the fridge open before he heard Ian speak up from the other room.

          “I’m gonna grab some chips. You want anything?”

          “Ooh, yeah. Get me the Ruffles!”

          “Ruffles? What’s the matter with you?”       

          “Not everyone likes Lays, Ian! Just get my damn chips.”

          “Fine, fine…”

          Mickey pulled a can of beer out from behind the milk and shut the door just as Ian appeared in the doorway. He jerked his chin at him in a silent hello, popping the tab on his drink and leaning a shoulder against the refrigerator.

          “Mandy sending you on errands for her now?”

          “Yeah,” said Ian, and despite how annoyed he sounded, he smiled a little. “Throw me a beer?”

          All too used to this request, Mickey complied reflexively; Ian raised his eyebrows a little even as he caught the can Mickey sent hurling at his head.

          “Sorry she was being weird about the color thing earlier, by the way,” said Ian, taking a sip of his drink. “She’s just…”

          “A bitch?” Mickey suggested.

          “A romantic,” Ian corrected, with a reproving look. He hesitated, fiddling with the open tab on his beer, then glanced up at Mickey from under his lashes. “Can _you_ see color?”

          Mickey scoffed. Apparently he hadn’t been very clear in the living room after all. “Unless you have gray hair and a gray face and are wearing gray clothes, I’m gonna say no.”

          Ian just looked at him for another moment, his expression too soft. Mickey was seriously contemplating either hitting him or leaving when Ian kept talking, saying, “Who cares though, you know?”

          Mickey hesitated, then took another sip of beer and said, “Mandy cares, apparently.”

          “Apparently,” Ian echoed. “I don’t know. Don’t you wonder what it’d _be_ like, though?”

          Mickey put his hands up, pushing away from the fridge and making for the exit. This was seriously the last conversation he wanted to have, especially with a virtual stranger. “What are you, a fucking rom-com?” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not gonna stand here fantasizing about love with you, man. Save the pillow talk for my sister, because I don’t—”

          He brushed past Ian on his way out, and the world exploded. For a second, he actually thought it had. His eyes burned a little, and he thought they might be sizzling right out of his head. He stumbled backwards, into the doorframe; somebody seized his arm, squeezing down on it. He clutched back at whoever it was, his nails digging into their skin while the bright lights burst behind his lids and something flame-hot and heavy burst in his chest.

          As quick as the explosion started, it was over. The lights had gone, but his lids still burned from where they had been seconds before. The fire in his chest died back down. The grip on his arm loosened and slowly, tentatively, he blinked his eyes open.

          Everything was different. Brighter. Reds, greens, blues, purples—he didn’t know which to ascribe to what color, he just knew that he could _see colors_. He stood frozen a minute, just marveling, taking everything in. He studied everything—the walls, the floors, Ian. How different his kitchen looked; his house was basically unrecognizable. Everything seemed so bright.

          He only came back to his senses a little when Ian gently pried Mickey’s fingers out his arm. Deep crescent marks, stark and angry, stood out on his skin. They both stood there for a moment, just watching the lines slowly fade. They met each other’s gazes, wide-eyed.

          “—care.”

          Mickey finished his thought feebly, belatedly. He didn’t really remember what he’d been talking about. Ian had more freckles than he’d realized; for some reason he couldn’t stop counting the number of different shades of _whatever_ in his irises. Out of every color newly available to him, everything about Ian—his hair, his skin, even his shirt—seemed most bright. Ian squeezed at his elbow, looking back at Mickey with his mouth slightly open.

          He knew the feeling.

          A noise in the living room startled Mickey back to his senses. Mandy had slammed the controller onto the coffee table and was shouting curses at the TV. Mickey tried to focus through the slush his brain had become; he knew there had to be something more important than Ian Gallagher, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what. But as Mandy’s stream of profanities didn’t end, his paralysis let up a little bit and a new thought came to him, small at first but demanding attention. The longer he stood there, the louder it grew, until Mickey’s palms were sweating and his face was hot and all he could think about was that _this couldn’t happen_. He tore his arm out of Ian’s grip, his heartrate picking up.

          If anyone came home—if Mandy saw them standing there slack-jawed and dumb—if Terry came home and found him staring at Ian like all he wanted was to find the right color to properly describe the shades in his eyes—he’d be dead before he hit the floor.

          “I have to go,” Mickey said hurriedly.

          This seemed to effectively snap Ian out of it.

          “Wait, _what_?” he said. “Mickey—”

          “Shut the fuck up!” he hissed, and oh god, he was going to start hyperventilating. Ian reached out to grab his arm again, but Mickey shunted him back, slamming him against the opposite door frame and shoving his face close to Ian’s. “This never happened,” he said forcefully. “You get me?”

          Ian glanced down at Mickey’s mouth, which definitely didn’t help. “Mickey—”

          “Fuck!” Mickey pushed back, running a hand through his hair, and glanced around, frantic and confused. “I gotta go.”

          “Mickey!”

          “Never happened!” he said again, jabbing a finger into Ian’s chest. Ian just stared at him, but the little crease between his eyebrows indicated that he had probably gotten the message. Mickey pushed Ian back once more for good measure, then turned and hustled through the living room towards the front door.

          Mandy looked up as he passed through, pausing the game to watch him go. “Hey, you heading out?”

          He ignored her. Behind him, he heard her game start up again just before he slammed the door.


	2. warm mouths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things: One, I just realized I said Mickey was twenty and skipping school, so first of all he's a super-super senior and second of all no one should ever let me write drunk again.  
> Two, note the new rating - a sex scene slipped in where it wasn't intended (the first smut I've written in like, a year. bear with me). Also, I’m pretty sure my brother saw part of it when he opened my computer to print something for class, so I hope you appreciate what I went through for this.  
> Third, this fic really was supposed to be only two chapters, but this one kind of got away from me. So, it's been extended to three. That'll be the last one, I swear.
> 
> Okay! Something to compensate for the heart-murdering episode that was last night!
> 
> -

          Over the following fortnight, Mickey developed an airtight plan. It was foolproof, really, except for one thing: Once again, he hadn’t accounted for Mandy.

          He had everything covered—he would drop out of school, pretend that he still only ever saw gray, and avoid Ian Gallagher for the rest of his life. He couldn’t see any flaws, really. The only pitfall that he hadn’t factored in as a potential problem was that his sister, apparently, had grown very attached to her pretend boyfriend.

          She had a really annoying habit of inviting her friends over to hang out, and since Ian was the only person stupid enough to want come over four nights a week to the Milkoviches’ house, this meant that Mickey ended up spending a lot of afternoons shut up in his room. The first few times he hadn’t bothered, determined to just avoid eye contact and never speak to him, but Ian had a knack for getting under his skin.

          “Looks bright out today, huh?” he’d say when Mandy got up to get food or go to the bathroom. “I bet the sky looks nice. If only we could know for sure, right Mickey?”

          Mickey had tried to ignore him, but Ian would continue on in this vein for so long that he would inevitably break down and snap, “Shut the fuck up.”

          Far from terrifying him, Ian seemed to take these snippets of speech as mini victories. His resulting smile was always wide and lit up his face in ways that Mickey didn’t want to think about. So, determined to pretend that Ian was nothing but his sister’s best friend, Mickey started avoiding the living room whenever he was over.

          The only bright side to this strategy was that he had ample time for research. He ended up spending a lot of time on his laptop, typing different colors into Google to see what popped up. He thought he had the basics down, although he didn’t know the specific shades like Mandy was starting to. He was actually pretty proud of himself the morning he woke up and was able to correctly identify the grass as green, the rust on his sink’s pipes as reddish orange, and Iggy’s boxers as blue until he realized that those were the colors of Ian’s eyes, hair, and favorite sweatshirt.

          The online studies he pretended he hadn’t read all said that that could happen, that accidental falling for someone: soulmates were linked in more ways than one. They were literally destined for each other—physically and emotionally. Mickey could have made a career out of stepping on his own feelings, but biology was something that even he couldn’t ignore. Not that he wasn’t trying.

          He skipped school the next Tuesday that he could. He needed to relax, he needed to be alone, and most importantly he needed to watch Who Wants to be a Millionaire? without people barging in on him. Getting out of school was just a bonus for him; Mandy had started towing Ian along when they got lunch together to the point where he considered actually going to class and finally graduating, albeit two years late, just to avoid having to see Ian any more after this year was through. He was starting to seriously doubt that Mandy didn’t know about what had happened a few weeks ago, because there was no way she could be this annoying by accident.

          Mickey woke up feeling almost calm; Mandy had left for school, Iggy was at his girlfriend’s, and Terry had taken Colin out of town on a drug run. He had the house to himself.

          He threw together a few pieces of toast and jam and sprawled out across the couch, digging the remote out from between the cushions and flipping the channels to Millionaire. He got through three hours’ worth of episodes, and by then he was actually feeling better than he had all week. He was stretched out with his feet propped up, idly smoking a cigarette, when his careful serenity was disturbed in the form of a heavy knock on the door.

          “God damn it,” Mickey muttered, snuffing out his cigarette on the ceramic ashtray beside the couch and using his knees to push himself to his feet. Nobody ever knocked. Everyone either just barged in or avoided the place completely.

          It came again, more insistent, as Mickey shuffled towards the door. He didn’t bother calling out that he was coming, because fuck whomever was disturbing his first day off in weeks. Between pulling odd jobs with his brothers and pretending that he still went to school, he didn’t get a lot of free time.

          He pulled open the door, ready to curse out whoever it was—but as soon as he saw who was on the other side of the threshold, he dropped his hand from the wood and stepped back, shrinking in on himself.

          “Aw, shit,” he said, scratching at his jaw. “What the fuck, Gallagher?”

          Ian stood in front of him, tall and red-haired and stunning. Mickey realized that he had had it all wrong: Whatever his memories had told him (in those moments between sleeping and waking, the only time he let himself think about him), he hadn’t gotten any of the details right. He had spent so much time avoiding the kid that he hadn’t known that he had misjudged the shade of his hair when the sunlight reflected off of it or just how brightly his eyes shone when he was determined. Right now, he seemed determined just to get inside the house. Mickey averted his eyes as soon as he realized that he was staring.

          “Mandy’s not here,” he said. He fished another cigarette out of his pocket, because he was going to need it for this conversation.

          Ian gave him a withering look, evidently unimpressed with his poor deflection skills. “No shit, Mickey. She told me you stayed in today.”

          “Yeah,” he said, drawing his eyebrows together in a firm attempt to look disinterested and annoyed.

          “Can I come in?”

          Mickey took a long drag. “ _Not_ a good time,” he said.

          Ian narrowed his eyes, then swiveled his head to look in both directions down the empty street before loudly proclaiming, “Wow, the sun’s really bright today, huh? Really makes that sky look _blue_ …”

          “Alright, alright!” Mickey interrupted, grabbing at the front of Ian’s sweatshirt—he was wearing the blue one today, go figure—and yanking him across the doorway. “Shut the fuck up and come in already, Jesus.”

          Ian smirked and followed Mickey into the living room, throwing his jacket across one of the chairs as he went. He was wearing a t-shirt underneath, striped green and too tight, because apparently he was here _just_ to torture Mickey. That seemed to be the only thing he was really good at.

          Ian rolled his eyes when he noticed Mickey eying him warily, throwing himself dramatically onto the couch. “I’m not here to ruin your life,” he said. “Just wanted to talk.”

          “I don’t talk,” Mickey grunted.

          “We have to.”

          “I don’t _have to_ do shit.”

          Ian raised his eyebrows. “Fine,” he said coolly. “How about this? We’ll play for it.”

          Mickey was running through the cigarette rather quickly, and it was already almost half gone when he said, “Play for it?”

          “Yeah,” said Ian, shrugging. He jumped up to shove a disc into the Xbox, then threw one of the controllers at Mickey, who barely caught it. Ian sat down beside him with the other. He pulled at Mickey’s elbow until he sat down next to him, careful to keep space between them. “Okay, here’s the rules,” Ian went on as the startup screen loaded, “I win, we talk. You win, we don’t. Sound fair?”

          “Or I could just kick you out and we don’t have to be having this fucking conversation while Millionaire is on.”

          “You watch Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” He shook his head before Mickey could respond. “Don’t answer that. Just play.”

          Mickey grumbled about it, of course, but he stuck his cigarette between his lips and picked up the controller anyway.

          Ian glanced at him from the corner of his eye, finger hovering over the Start button. “You ready to get your ass handed to you?”

          “I’m ready for you to get the fuck outta my house,” Mickey threw back, and he started the game before Ian could react.

          Mickey was good at a lot of things. He could take down people three times bigger than him, he could knock back eight shots in a row, and he rolled a joint better than anybody in the neighborhood. But when it came to video games, he wasn’t good. He was _great_.

          He kicked Ian’s ass in three rounds in a row. Ian got increasingly more violent the longer they played, shouting profanities at both Mickey and the game.

          “Fuck, damn it!” Ian yelled out as his avatar hit the floor at the end of the third round. He slammed his controller down on his knee, and immediately shouted again, rubbing at the spot. “Shit!”

          “Fuck yes!” Mickey yelled, throwing his own controller onto the cushions beside him. “Fucking eat me, Gallagher!”

          “Get fucked,” Ian snapped, crossing his arms and pressing back into the couch.

          Mickey grinned at him, slapping him on his injured knee as he stood up. “Damn right. Time for you to go.”

          “Fucking fine,” Ian grumbled, and he seemed more disgruntled at losing the game than he did the bet. “At least I know Mandy can kick your ass later. That makes it a _little_ better.”

          “Mandy ain’t got shit on me.”

          “Oh, please. I saw the scoreboard.”

          “She plays more than me, but she’s not better. I could wipe my ass with her any time.”

          “Whatever you say.” Ian rolled his eyes, standing as well. “Can I at least use your bathroom? I’ve got history next and I’m not trying to be on time.”

          “With that fuckhead who keeps grabbing at Mandy’s ass?” Mickey asked, wrinkling his nose. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Just do me a favor and hit him or something when you get there.”

          “You got it.” Ian flashed him one last smile before disappearing around the corner.

          Mickey dropped back down onto the couch as soon as he heard the bathroom door shut, shoving the Xbox controllers onto the floor and flipping through the channels. Millionaire was over by then, but he found an old Family Feud episode that he’d seen already and laid down with his head on the armrest, wondering if he still knew any of the answers. He was just considering getting up to get chips when he heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open and shut, and a few seconds later Ian exited Mickey’s room.

          “Yo, Gallagher,” Mickey called, and he knew he was about to regret this.

          Ian came around the back of the couch to stand in front of him, looking down at him and studying him in a way Mickey wished he wouldn’t, because just standing there Mickey could see him from an entirely new angle. The slopes of his shoulders, the hard edge of his jaw. He wanted to not care, but biology was one hell of a bitch.

          He opened his mouth to ask him to grab him some chips before leaving, but what came out was, “You wanna stay for lunch?”

          Really, Ian looked more smug than delighted. Mickey wanted to regret his offer, but it was difficult when Ian smiled and said, “Sure. I can always kick some teacher ass later,” and looked that good while he said it. He went to throw some pizza rolls in the oven and made Mickey budge up to make some room on the couch while they cooked.

          “Who’s playing?” Ian asked when he sat back down.

          “The Wilsons and the Whitterns. You seen it?”

          “Yeah, Debbie used to turn it on after the daycare she ran let out. Said she was blowing off steam or something. But I didn’t really pay attention.”

          The commercial break ended and the game started on a new round of questions. The Hoovers had two strikes and two out of six answers on the board for “things that put women in a romantic mood” when Mickey started yelling at the TV.

          “Strawberries! Somebody fucking say strawberries! You’re telling me chicks don’t dig that crap? Dipped in chocolate and shit!”

          “Are you kidding me?” said Ian, knocking their knees together to get his attention. “What the fuck do you know about women?

          “Well, what the hell would _you_ give ‘em?” Mickey asked, annoyed. He happened to be very good at Family Feud, and didn’t need anybody telling him how to play, regardless of whether or not he’d ever attempted to romance a woman in his life.

          “I don’t know. A love song or something?”

          “A—a _love song_?” Mickey sneered. “What are you, five? Who the fuck writes love songs? A poem, maybe—”

          “Please, play a love song and they’re practically throwing their panties at you—”

          “Oh yeah, you know all about getting off women’s panties, huh?” Mickey smirked and jabbed Ian in the ribs. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve wooed many a woman in your day—”

          “ _Wooed_?” Ian repeated, catching Mickey’s wrist before he could poke him again and pulling him forward, catching his arm so that he couldn’t get away, “What are you, eighty?”

          “Shut up,” he muttered, giving up on wrenching away from Ian’s grip and using his free hand to twist painfully at his nipple; Ian yelped and shoved Mickey away, hard enough that he fell onto his other side. Mickey lashed out to kick him but Ian grabbed his ankle, but was not fast enough to stop the other leg that came out and caught him in the stomach. Mickey had apparently knocked the wind out of him, because Ian struggled to inhale for a second before climbing on top of Mickey’s calves, pinning them to the couch.

          “Stop kicking me!” he said.

          “Fine,” said Mickey. He lurched up and jabbed him in the ribs again instead, his other hand coming down hard on Ian’s bruised knee for balance. Ian yelled out again and batted him away, but he’d lost his leverage and Mickey managed to shove him backwards off his legs while he was distracted. Ian’s feet came up and nearly knocked Mickey in the jaw, so he pulled his legs out flat and swung his knees over Ian’s torso, sitting on his chest and effectively pinning him for good.

          Ian looked actually aggravated by now, because that last punch to the stomach was admittedly a cheap shot, but as he brought his arms up to shove at Mickey, he glanced to the side and stopped with his hands halfway between their bodies. Mickey froze too, poised awkwardly on top of Ian with his hands pinning down his shoulders.

          Their half-play fight, half-actual-wresting match had left Mickey a little hard in the pants, and Ian had noticed.

          They paused, each waiting for the other do to something, to make a move. Then Ian, arms evidently getting tired of hovering, brought his hands down to clamp down over Mickey’s thighs, and Mickey made up his mind.

          He clamored off of Ian’s stomach, throwing Ian’s legs off the couch to give himself room to tug off his shirt. Ian stood up, apparently very much agreeable to the situation, and tried to start unbuttoning his jeans. He was taking an incredibly long time because of the fact that he was trying to rush, so when Mickey was done with his tank he reached over to pull Ian’s own shirt over his head. Ian lifted his arms to let him, and then helped Mickey with his sweatpants. Mickey threw them over the back of the couch—he wasn’t wearing boxers or anything—and grabbed Ian’s shoulders to pull him over his own body as he laid down. Ian had his hands planted on either side of Mickey’s shoulders, holding himself up while Mickey fumbled his zipper open and shoved them down to his knees. Ian kicked them off properly while Mickey set to work grinding their bare hips together. Ian buried his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck, and from where his lips pressed against his collar, Mickey could feel the groan as vibrations on his skin. Ian pulled back to stare at him, eyes wandering down his bare torso, seemingly lost in the friction Mickey was creating between them.

          “Look, I know I look extra good in high-definition, but can we get a move on? I’m pale with black hair, you could see me just fine before.”

          Ian ducked back down; Mickey could feel teeth on his neck, so knew he was smiling, even as he reached down and wrapped his hand around Mickey’s cock.

          “Thought you didn’t want to talk about it?” he asked, sounding too amused at Mickey’s groan. They didn’t have lube on them, and the roughness of just his hand was kind of good. Ian shimmied down to wrap his lips around one of his nipples, and Mickey’s hand automatically found its way to Ian’s hair, tugging a little.

          “Who’s talking about it?” Mickey grunted, grinding his hips up into Ian’s hand, which dragged a little slower down his cock at the movement. “Fuck.”

          “Good idea,” Ian said, and to Mickey’s displeasure, he released both his nipple and his dick and sat up between his legs. “Flip over.”

          Mickey did, a little awkwardly considering how little space he had to work with. Ian was on him in a second, burying his face in Mickey’s back. His hand reached down to grope at his ass, and Mickey made a small, pleased noise and pushed back against him, feeling his cock against his dry hole.

          “Fuck, get off me. There’s lube and condoms in my bedside table.”

          After a second or two more, Ian stood up reluctantly; Mickey flattened himself on the couch and propped his head up on his arms, taking the opportunity to get a better look at him. He had freckles all over his chest and thighs too, and his cock was already half-hard, hanging low and heavy between his legs. Mickey licked his lips a little; Ian caught the movement and gave a small but self-satisfied smile. He turned to get the necessities from Mickey’s room, and Mickey watched him go, noting the freckles splattered across his back and ass too.

          “Yo, Gallagher. What the fuck’s taking so long?”

          Ian didn’t answer; Mickey grunted and flipped over onto his back, wrapping his own hand around his cock and picking up where Ian had left off.

          Ian returned half a minute later, looking a little displeased at the sight he found. He climbed on top of Mickey’s thighs so that he had to stop rolling his hips up into his hand.

          “Stop that,” he said, hands on Mickey’s waist and nails digging into his skin. “Turn over.”

          Mickey complied, pushing himself up onto hands and knees when Ian backed off a little to give him room. He was just about to start taking care of himself again when he felt fingers on his ass, one hand spreading him open while another circled his rim before gently pushing a finger inside. Mickey pushed back further against him, the backs of his thighs hitting the front of Ian’s. Ian’s free hand released his ass and ran down his side, scratching just a little. Mickey was just about to say he was good for more when Ian pushed another inside.

          “ _Fuck_ , Gallagher,” Mickey groaned, rocking forward a little, but there was nothing to rub up against. He spit into his hand balanced on one arm, but he only jerked his cock once or twice before Ian grabbed his wrist again. He had to lay over Mickey’s back to get the angle right, but he managed to pin both of Mickey’s hands down on the couch just as he added one more finger as compensation, stretching him.

          “Come the fuck on,” Mickey said, pressing back against him. He would never admit to the pleading edge his tone took on when Ian didn’t obey.

          “Re _lax_ ,” said Ian, nails digging into the back of Mickey’s hand, but he did pull his fingers out and lean back, both hands settling on Mickey’s hips instead. Mickey was only aching at the loss for a few seconds before he heard a condom ripping open and the lube bottle get uncapped once more, and just as he was about to tell him to _hurry the fuck up_ , Ian pushed into him and he forgot what he wanted to complain about.

          “Oh, god,” he hissed, buckling forward a little. Ian had upended a significant amount of lube over his dick, but the prep had been short and the burn was still present, albeit good.

          He was just so _big_ ; Mickey couldn’t remember feeling more full in his life. It felt right, though, somehow.

          “You okay?” Ian asked, sounding a little out of breath for reasons Mickey couldn’t quite understand, considering _he_ was taking the brunt of it right now.

          “Fucking great, can you move?”

          Ian didn’t bother asking twice; he pulled out just a bit before pushing back in, hard, rough, setting a fast but punishing pace. Mickey rocked underneath him with every thrust, his face buried in arms. Ian sat up a little higher on his knees, his hands dragging Mickey’s hips back to keep them linked together when he moved. The new angle was a little better; Mickey swallowed down a guttural sound, his teeth closing over his own skin to stop the noise from coming out.

          “So good, Jesus, Mickey,” Ian was saying, still snapping his hips forward into Mickey, so that Mickey’s teeth dragged further down his own arm painfully. “Come on, stop that. Let me hear you.”

          He reached around to wrap one hand around Mickey’s cock again, the other still on his waist to keep them balanced. Mickey had to wait for a second, actively blocking another groan from ripping from his throat, before he snapped, “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Gallagher. Shut up and fuck me right. Come on, that all you got?”

          Ian let out a short laugh at the challenge, and he thrust in one last time before pulling out completely. Mickey reached back to slap at his thigh, a protest on his lips, but then Ian wrapped both arms around his chest and picked him up, slamming him against the back of the couch. Mickey turned his head in time to see Ian clamoring to his feet behind him before Ian spread open his ass again and pushed back in with one long thrust, not giving him time to readjust before starting up an even faster rhythm than before. The new angle hit Mickey’s sweet spot perfectly, and he couldn’t hold back the moan that tore itself from him that time. Ian gave a satisfied chuckle and Mickey really wanted to reprimand him again, but then Ian had one hand on Mickey’s cock again, the other digging its nails into his ass, and he could only grab hard at the back of the couch and hold on for the ride.

          “Yes, _fuck_ ,” Mickey muttered, pushing his ass back and meeting Ian thrust for thrust. “Shit, Gallagher. _Shit_.”

          Ian’s hand sped up on Mickey’s cock, jerking him with long, perfect strokes, his thumb rubbing against the head on every other stroke. He thrust into him harder, too, hitting his prostate every time so that Mickey collapsed forward, his forehead pushing into the couch between his hands.

          “Gallagher—Ian—I’m gonna—”

          He couldn’t get the words out right; Ian seemed to get the message though, because the hand on his cock got rougher, less precise. His free hand pressed against Mickey’s, wrapping over his, giving him leverage to thrust into him harder. Mickey didn’t know if he wanted to push back and ride Ian properly or thrust up into his hand, but it didn’t matter—in a second, he was coming, hard, crying out as he spilled over Ian’s hand and the back of his couch. He bit down on the closest thing to his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut, riding out his orgasm.

          He held himself up through it so that Ian could keep fucking into him, harder and losing rhythm while Mickey came down from his high. He realized he was biting down on Ian’s wrist and released him, bowing his head instead to focus on grinding back and getting Ian over the edge as well. He knew he was close, too, so he reached back and grabbed at Ian’s ass, pulling him closer, and in seconds Ian was coming, too. He fell forward, pressing Mickey into the cushions, but he didn’t really care.

          After maybe thirty seconds passed and Ian still hadn’t budged, Mickey elbowed him lightly in the ribs to get him to roll off of him. Ian got the message, pulling out and collapsing onto the couch next to him, throwing the condom somewhere on the floor for Mickey to clean up later. Mickey flipped over as soon as he was free so that he could lay down on his back, his legs thrown over Ian’s lap, still breathing a little hard and staring up at the ceiling.

          Mickey’s eyes strayed to the TV after a bit, where Family Feud was still playing on the TV, the volume low. He glanced at the screen just as one of the teams won the Fast Money round, and he just watched them cheer for a minute. He eventually leaned over to dig a cigarette out of his pack, lighting it up as he watched the family onscreen celebrate their winning. The silence stretched on between him and Ian, and although he didn’t exactly mind it, Mickey spoke first anyway.

          “Not bad, Gallagher,” he admitted when he thought he could speak normally. He even cracked a half-smile in Ian’s direction. He blew the smoke out up towards the ceiling before offering a drag to Ian, who accepted.

          Ian snorted. “Please, I’m awesome. You _bit_ me,” he added, brandishing his injured arm. “Not complaining, just saying. You loved it.” He looked extremely pleased with the fact that he had bite marks on his wrist. “Go on, admit it. I’m pretty good.”

          Mickey arched an eyebrow, glancing once over Ian’s naked body. He had to admit, it wasn’t bad, but he tried to look disinterested. It was a hard look to pull off after he’d just gotten fucked by that very same body, but he made a solid effort.

          “You wish,” he said, snatching his cigarette back. “I’d bite anyone with a seven-inch dick.”

          “Nine inches, actually,” said Ian with a grin. He rapped his knuckles against Mickey’s ankle, and Mickey kicked him lightly.

          “No shit, huh?” said Mickey, taking another long drag. His gaze lingered on Ian’s cock, which, even soft, was admittedly pretty big. “Well, damn. At least you know how to use it.”

          Ian looked even smugger at the praise.

          They sat around smoking and talking for another ten minutes, too lazy and fucked out to really move. The oven went off after a bit, and they ate their way through all of the pizza rolls before Ian got up to go scavenge for clothes. The school day was almost over, but he could make the last two classes if he left now.

          They were in the doorway about to say goodbye when Ian asked, “This mean you’re gonna stop avoiding me?” He was pulling his sweatshirt back on and smiling this dumb lopsided smile when he said it.

          Mickey scratched his leg through the sweatpants he’d thrown back on, making a face. “Don’t know. You gonna try to bring up all that soulmate shit again?”

          Ian sighed like he was bored of Mickey protesting. Like it was all that simple. “Mick—”

          “No.” Mickey cut him off firmly, waving a hand around to show he meant business. “I told you, I can’t handle all of that—all of your shit. It’s all too fucked up. So you gotta keep it under wraps, you got me?”

          “Why? Because you’re afraid of what people are gonna say?”

          “Because it’s—we’re—it’s fucked up, okay? Can we just shut the fuck up about it and move on? We had a good fuck, can’t that just be that?”

          “No,” Ian said stubbornly. He crossed his arms, and the height difference between them suddenly seemed much greater than it had just minutes ago. “We were made for each other, Mickey. Not in a sappy way,” he rushed on, holding a hand up to stem the protests he could see forthcoming, “but in a literal, black-and-white, _actual_ pre-determined way. I don’t know why it happens, either, but it does. And not for just anyone. But it did. For us. Even _you_ can’t deny that.”

          Mickey glared at him. “You need to shut the fuck up. Now. What are you? Seventeen? What the hell do you know about any of that shit?”

          “I know that you’re being a bitch for no reason,” he said.

          “Fuck you,” said Mickey, jaw clenching. “What the fuck do you know about me? What, just cos I take it up the ass suddenly I’m a bitch? Liking what I like don’t me a bitch.”

          “No,” Ian agreed, shaking his head, “Acting like a dumbass does, though.”

          “Hey, what the hell do you know about it? I’m sure your big happy family doesn’t care what kind of garbage you screw—”

          “So you’re afraid what your family will think?”

          “Fuck that!” Mickey shouted, and he shoved at his chest, hard. Ian stumbled back a few steps, but he straightened immediately, glowering down at him.

          The atmosphere had shifted dramatically. They had been relaxed, sated, even cordial all afternoon. Now Ian’s presence just felt dark, like black and white all over again.

          “What are you so afraid of, then?” Ian demanded, taking a step closer. He seemed completely unfazed by Mickey’s temper.

          “Afraid of?” Mickey repeated, disbelieving. “I ain’t _afraid_ , fuckhead, I’m realistic. What the fuck are you on? You think we should just run around like a fucking couple now?”

          “No, of course not. But—”

          “What the hell do you want from me then?” Mickey demanded. “Two point five kids and a fucking picket fence? Grow up. We ain’t girlfriend and boyfriend, you’re just some pathetic, backalley fuck in a bad neighborhood.”

          Ian didn’t seem to quite buy that, although Mickey could tell by the way his face fell slightly that he was a little hurt. He pressed on anyway, “That’s bullshit, Mickey. We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of!”

          “What fucking world do you live in?” Mickey took a step backward; Ian was too close, still radiating warmth and sex, lit up in multicolor. Everything about him was red and green and blue. Mickey couldn’t think. “What? You think I let you fuck me once and now we’re gonna skip off into the fucking sunset? You think we’re gonna—gonna go to dinner and hold hands and play footsie under the goddamn table? You need to grow the fuck up.”

          “Oh, you are so full of shit!” Now Ian was yelling, too, throwing his hands up. “You’re gonna act like what happened last month didn’t actually happen? You really want to pretend that you’re still seeing gray—”

          “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mickey said. His voice was a little quieter than Ian’s, but just as hard. “None of that meant shit—”

          “You know that’s not true.” Ian seemed determined, his chin set, his jaw hard, his eyes wide and green and pleading. “I was there, in the kitchen with you. I was there too. You can fake it if you want, but I know what you felt. That—that fire, or whatever it was. And then the gray went away. You can’t fake that.”

          “Fuck you,” Mickey snarled. “You don’t know shit about me.” Ian was too close again. He lashed out, one arm keeping him at bay. “Get the fuck out.”

          “Fine,” Ian spit. He backed up a little, gave Mickey some room. They were both breathing harder than they should have been. “Fine. But you’re full of it, and you know it. I’ll be around when you stop acting like an idiot.”

          With that, he turned to leave, and in the slam of a door he was gone before Mickey could say another word. Mickey turned back to his empty living room, angry, but he wasn’t sure at who. He wanted to believe that he was mad at Ian, but something about that felt off. He wasn’t exactly mad at himself though, either. He kicked at a support beam, muttering, “Fuck.”

          Everything had turned to shit so quickly. Mickey dug the heels of his hands into his temples, trying to forget about the whole thing—the fuck, the fight, all of it. Slowly, methodically, he gathered himself together and started cleaning up the living room, throwing away the used condom and returning the lube to his bedroom, putting the empty plate from the pizza rolls into the sink and wiping away what he could of the dried come on the cushions. In five minutes he made it as though his morning had never been interrupted, and he thought he felt a little better for it. Mickey sunk back onto the couch when he was done, determined to forget about Ian altogether and go back to acting like he didn’t even exist. Everything was easier that way.

          Mickey may have slipped up today, but he wasn’t going to see Ian Gallagher again.

          He could control himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three fights rolled into one! forgive me.  
> oh, and that was a real episode of Family Feud, from like 2013. Oh yeah, I do my research.
> 
> happy endings coming soon :)


	3. partner/lover/family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to my best friend's ex, who looked over while I was writing about boys kissing and asked what I was typing so determinedly
> 
> also, actual shoutout to lily, for listening to me talk excitedly about soulmates when all she wanted was people to care about mickey's probable anxiety disorder  
> but for real go follow her @ iandebbie.tumblr.com
> 
> Oh yeah, and just a warning: Mickey has a panic attack this chapter. There's also some pretty obvious references to 3x666 (you know, for an au) in that there's a semi-graphic fight scene.
> 
>  
> 
> -

          Mickey couldn’t control himself.

          He found himself constantly on edge whenever Mandy brought her best friend home with her, but it was different from the anxiety of the last few weeks. Where before he was counting down the seconds until Ian left, now he caught himself glancing at his closed bedroom door every few minutes, wondering if he had imagined the knock on it, or else lingering too long in the kitchen as though Ian might come in and say something to him—to yell at him, to beg for him, to accuse him of being scared some more; anything would be better than this freezing him out.

          Mickey didn’t lock himself in his room anymore, either; he sprawled out on the chair next to the couch whenever Ian and Mandy were in the living room, his legs spread wide open in a way that looked like he just didn’t care, but that he almost hoped Ian would find inviting—not that he’d ever admit that, not even to himself. He didn’t really consciously decide to do any of these things; they were sort of involuntary, things he caught himself at and hastened to correct. But Ian appeared to have taken his words to heart and was behaving accordingly: letting Mickey fake it and acting as though nothing had happened.

          At least on the days that Mickey joined them in the living room and got as close to wordlessly propositioning him as he could without his sister noticing, Ian didn’t act like he didn’t exist. He threw him a cursory glance and an occasional, “Hey, Mick,” but acting like he had lost interest was somehow worse than pretending that they didn’t know each other at all. At least when he didn’t say _anything_ Mickey knew that it was because he was remembering all too clearly their last real conversation, but that kind of hollow acknowledgement indicated that he was over it, over _him_. For all Ian had talked about soulmates and color and fire, Mickey seemed to be the only one burning up.

          He was a Milkovich, though, and Milkoviches didn’t lose. His pride was bigger than his heart, and he had been serious before: Mickey Milkovich was _not_ a bitch. No matter how he felt, he had absolutely no intention of caving first, however much it looked like Ian didn’t even have so much as a fleeting desire to do so in his stead. Mickey was hurt, sure, and he hadn’t realized how badly he wanted Ian until he had had him—even if he’d only had him for a second—but he was not, he was _not_ , going to give in.

          Until Ian came over late one day, and Mandy said, “What took you so long, shithead? ROTC training let out an hour ago,” and from where Mickey was carefully crafting a ham-and-cheese sandwich in the kitchen he heard Ian respond, “ _Junior_ ROTC. And one of the Chang brothers wanted to fuck under the bleachers.”

          Mickey dropped his knife. It glanced off the edge of the counter and clattered noisily to the floor.

          Neither of the people in the living room appeared to have heard the only audible indicator of Mickey’s internal crisis; they were still carrying on their conversation as though nothing was off about what Ian had said. Evidently he had been true to his word about keeping all the soulmate shit to himself, because Mandy’s first reaction was, “I love that you out all the neighborhood kids to me. It makes them so much easier to blackmail,” and she didn’t seem to find it strange that Ian was still sleeping around.

          “You’re awful,” Ian laughed, followed by the sound of skin on skin; Mandy must have smacked him on the arm.

          Mickey was frozen for a minute, absorbing this new information. He wasn’t sure how to process it, really; he was pretty sure he didn’t feel good about it. He was also aware that he had no legitimate grounds for protest.

          Fucking destiny. Mickey was going to kick some serious ass as soon as he found out who was responsible for making him this ridiculously territorial over some stupid doe-eyed kid.

          “So how’d he get you in the sack?” Mandy asked in the other room.

          Mickey was torn between curiosity and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach; unsure what to do, he picked up his knife and starting spreading mayo over the bread again, but only stood for about ten seconds at the counter before he realized that he would hit something if he actually had to listen to Ian recount the story in its entirety. He abandoned his sandwich and headed towards his room, wanting nothing more than to slam the door as hard as he could and then sulk for an hour or so.

          Mandy hailed him down in the living room, apparently determined to ruin his life at every turn. “Hey, you done in the kitchen?”

          “No,” said Mickey, reluctantly pausing in front of the two of them on the couch. He was pretty sure there was still a come stain on the back cushions, and he was equally sure that Ian was leaning right on it. He averted his eyes back to his sister.

          Ian chose that moment to address him. “Hey, Mickey.”

          Mickey glanced at him again; he was smirking like he knew that Mickey had heard everything he’d said about the kid from JROTC. Mickey arched an eyebrow disdainfully, like he had no idea why Ian might be speaking to him at all, but privately he was theorizing about all the places that the Chang kid might have touched him. Fuck, he was going to go after them all with a tire iron, just to be absolutely sure that he got the right brother.

          “Well, could you maybe hurry up?” Mandy said impatiently, oblivious to the two of them, “I want to make dinner.”

          “Then fucking make dinner, I don’t care,” Mickey said, and he started to walk off again.

          “If you don’t come back in two minutes I’m eating that sandwich you’ve spent the last twenty minutes making!” she threw at his back. “Other people need the fucking mayo!”

          “Eat my sandwich and I’ll murder you in your sleep,” he called over his shoulder, slamming the door to his room behind him.

          She yelled something angry back at him, but he wasn’t listening. He yanked his shirt over his head and threw it into the corner of his room, stripped violently out of his sweatpants, and went to take a very hot shower.

          While he was in there, the water pounding relentlessly and scalding on his back, his head hitting the tile wall repeatedly, he came up with a half-formed, very poorly-planned idea. All he knew was that he couldn’t fucking do this anymore. He was losing his goddamn mind.

          When he finally shut off the water, he toweled off quickly, then threw on a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt that he left unzipped and wandered back into the living room.

          Ian and Mandy were watching a movie, his arm around her shoulder and her head resting against his chest. Mickey strode past them to grab a beer from the fridge and then threw himself down on the couch, forcing his way into the corner and shoving Ian and Mandy over. Mandy went, grumbling. Ian glanced over, a smile halfway on his face before his eyes caught on Mickey’s bare chest and thin boxers, and his mouth dropped open a little bit. Mickey raised his eyebrows; Ian licked his lips.

          “Move the fuck over,” Mickey said, when Ian gave no indication that he was going to stop staring long enough to make room on the couch.

          Ian blinked a few times before seeming to come back to himself and scooting a little closer to Mandy, although he left a few inches between them whereas he was still pressed right along Mickey’s side in one long line.

          Mickey gave Ian about ten minutes of watching the movie in peace before he got bored. To his credit, when Mickey first slid his hand over Ian’s knee, Ian barely flinched. He just looked over to make sure Mandy was facing away from them, towards the television screen, before glancing at Mickey again. It was dark enough to get away with it, and Mickey smirked, his fingertips digging slightly harder into Ian’s inner thigh before sliding a little further up his inseam.

          Ian’s willpower was astounding, although Mickey’s impatience overshadowed his admiration. Luckily, a stronger man than Ian Gallagher would break with Mickey getting dangerously close to his dick, and he only lasted a few minutes before Mickey pressed his nails into Ian’s jeans two inches from where his cock was already starting to harden a little, and Ian blurted out, “Mandy.”

          Mickey whipped his hand off Ian’s lap just as Mandy turned to face him. Ian flushed and Mickey thought he pressed his legs a little tighter together as he said, “You have any more beer and popcorn?”

          Mandy curled her lip, flicking her eyes over her friend. “That’s a weird combination,” she said disdainfully. “But yeah, whatever. Be right back.”

          Mandy had barely disappeared into the kitchen before Mickey slammed his drink on the coffee table and jumped up. He fisted his hand into Ian’s t-shirt and pulled him to his feet as well, backing up through the living room without ever lifting his gaze from Ian’s. Ian shouted out, “Mands, I’m gonna run to the bathroom!” right as Mickey slammed his bedroom door, backing Ian up against it and leaving Mandy’s reply muffled.

          Mickey grabbed at Ian’s sides, leaning up to press his lips to Ian’s and cut off any questions he might have had as he pushed his tongue into his mouth, and Ian certainly didn’t seem to mind, reciprocating in full. He pushed Mickey’s sweatshirt off his shoulders and pulled at his waist, jerking him closer, but as soon as Mickey started to grind against him, Ian used his grip to still Mickey’s hips and pulled his head back, effectively stopping whatever had been happening in its tracks.

          He grinned down at Mickey, eyebrows raised. “Miss me?” he asked.

          Mickey glared at him, but the bite was lost a little due to the death grip he still had on him and the thumbs he was brushing across his ribs, too soft compared to his expression. “Get fucked,” he snapped anyway.

          Ian must have known he was pushing, but he still said, “Admit it. You want me.”

          “Fine,” Mickey said harshly, resisting the urge to knee Ian in the crotch despite being in the perfect position to do so. “You’re a fucking red-haired asshole with a tight green shirt. And I fucking saw all the colors in the kitchen too, okay? So if you want me to stop faking—” Mickey took a shaky breath in, the thread of his tirade lost—“If that means we’re—fuck, if we—”

          Ian didn’t seem to need to hear the actual words. He kissed him to shut him up, reaching down to grope at Mickey’s ass, and then shoved him back towards the bed. Mickey landed flat on his back but Ian was on him again in a second, grinding down on him and trying to pull his own shirt off at the same time. Mickey did what he could to help, but the position was awkward and he ended up just wrapping his legs around Ian’s waist and watching him undress.

          Ian sat up once he was shirtless so that Mickey’s ankles hooked just above his waistband, then started in on his own zipper.

          “This mean you don’t want to see other people?” Ian asked, a little breathless but still managing to grin as he shimmied out of his jeans.

          Mickey dropped his feet flat on the bed and sat up as well, flipping their positions and pinning Ian to the mattress by his hands.

          “You see other people all you want,” he said, but when Ian’s smile dropped a little, he leaned close to his ear and growled, “but if they see you back, I’ll tear their fucking eyes out.”

          Ian laughed, quiet but delighted, up at the ceiling. Mickey, satisfied that Ian had gotten the message, leaned back and set to work stripping off his boxers.

          He ended up on his knees with Ian driving into him, rough but perfect in the dark. They were well aware of the need to hurry, what with Mandy waiting for them in the other room, but that didn’t stop them from taking their time where they could. Ian ran his hands across every part of Mickey’s skin that he could reach and Mickey dragged his eyes over what he could see when he turned his head, memorizing each other despite the lack of light around them. Three weeks alone seemed like a very long time. Afterwards they collapsed beside each other on the bed, giving themselves a minute to lay silently with each other before they had to gather their clothes and return to the living room. Mickey spent the whole time panting, trying to remember why he hadn’t given in earlier.

          Crawling back turned out to be unexpectedly satisfying.

          By the time they went back to the movie, Mandy had set snacks down on the table and was wrapped up in a blanket, which Ian immediately huddled under as well. Mickey’s beer was warm and Mandy had eaten his sandwich after all, but there was a pleasant ache in his ass and his sweatshirt still smelled a little like Ian, and it was hard for him to care.

 

          They fell into a semi-regular routine after that. Ian would call Mickey asking if he was out on a drug run or Mickey would text Ian to ask if he could relay a message to Mandy, but they were really asking _are you home?_ And if they were, it was “be over with the shit in five” or “sorry, skipped school today” and they invariably ended up fucking in an alley or a deserted parking lot or under the L. If they were really lucky, one of their houses would be empty and they got to fuck on a bed. Sometimes Mickey even let them do it face-to-face, but he didn’t have a lot of leverage when they did it missionary and he ended up feeling claustrophobic most of the time, pinned down like he couldn’t get up. He tried not to make a big deal of it when it all turned out to be too much, just pushed and twisted until he was on top. It wasn’t the most romantic segue into riding dick, which after all was fairly intimate, but Ian never complained.

          Things didn’t always work out so smoothly, though.

          By the time they had been seeing each other for a couple of months, Mickey had all but dropped the pretense that they weren’t together. In everything but name, they were—which made it especially difficult being apart for more than a week at a time, however much Mickey hated to admit it. They managed to get together fairly often, but every once in awhile Ian would get caught up in school or work or family drama (the time his mother came back briefly, Mickey didn’t see or hear from him for a week), or Mickey would have to go out on multiple runs in one week, and they had to without each other for longer than they were used to. Mickey didn’t throw a fit about it, of course—he had _some_ pride when it came to Ian Gallagher. You know, probably—but he did undeniably sleep increasingly worse the more time that crept by since he’d seen him.

          Winter vacation was like a godsend. Both of their families were too poor to go on vacation or anything, and without school or any real homework to do, an enormous amount of free time opened up for Ian. Mickey hastened to fill in those gaps in his schedule, and more often than not he found himself bent over or braced against a wall somewhere. He kind of thought he might have discovered religion sometime between Ian’s birthday and Christmas, which was a blur of two weeks’ worth of dirty, filthy fuck-fests fueled by holiday spirit and the knowledge that Ian was finally legal. That didn’t mean much to anyone, least of all the two of them, but the fact that he was finally eighteen seemed to spur Ian on to faster and rougher fucking in a birthday-related high, the kind of newfound vigor that didn’t peter out for at least a week.

          Then again, if he’d found religion somewhere in the vicinity of Ian’s lap, then the return of the academic year filled Mickey with something akin to finding out that his god was a fake, his church had done a massive cover-up in a centuries-old plot to scheme his money, and that he was actually going to hell after all despite all the care he had taken to be a devout, god-fearing man.

          It was an easier explanation than admitting that he actually _cared_ about Ian or something, and would miss him when his schedule wasn’t quite so free.

          Mickey didn’t even pretend that he still went to school anymore. He’d faked it for an extra year and a half just to keep up the pretense that he might someday graduate, but mostly he had done it because the opportunities for dealing were astounding at that rundown school full of bored jaded teenagers, and he hadn’t had much else to do all day anyway. Iggy had finally started cutting him in on some of the better scams they were running, though, and he officially gave up sometime in early January, opting to just never come back after winter break. Not that he’d gone all that much before.

          The first days after the semester started were unexpectedly difficult considering that Mickey spent most of that time sleeping, or else smoking weed and binge watching Law & Order in his waking hours. He and Ian had managed to get together four or five nights a week over break, but now Ian had school and homework and exams, and Mickey had to relearn how to make do with his left hand most nights.

          By the time Ian called him to meet up for the first time since school restarted, Mickey hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks. He answered as soon as he saw the caller ID, dragging the cigarette he was smoking away from his mouth. He kicked himself a little at his eagerness but could not entirely regret it as soon as he heard the boy on the other line, and though he told himself that it was just because he hadn’t gotten fucked in awhile, he also knew that that wasn’t entirely true.

          “Hey, Mickey,” said Ian as soon as he picked up. He sounded out of breath, and the connection was bad, like wind was rushing through the speaker or something. “Your sister around?”

          Mickey grinned a little to himself; Ian must be somewhere public if he was using Mandy as an excuse to call.

          “No,” he said, picking at a bit of dirt under one of his fingernails.

          “Oh. Well I’m out on a run and I’m passing your house in a few—”

          “My dad’s home, though,” Mickey interrupted him, and as though to confirm his story, a toilet flushed in one of the other rooms. “You busy later?”

          Ian sighed. “Yes,” he said ruefully. “Family dinner. Fiona says she’s got some big news or something.”

          Mickey didn’t bother pretending not to know who that was. “She pregnant or something?”

          “God, I hope not,” Ian said, sounding startled. “We’ve got enough kids running around.”

          Mickey snorted. “Yeah, whatever. Maybe I’ll drop by later, huh?”

          Ian made a half-distressed, half-irritated noise, and when he spoke again, his voice came through clearer, not distorted by wind anymore. Mickey figured he had paused in his jog to talk.

          “I can’t. I told Linda I’d pick up the closing shift, and that runs til ten.”

          “So swing by after,” Mickey said impatiently. He ashed his cigarette in the tray beside him and then took another drag.

          “I’ve got a chem test tomorrow, and I’m basically failing as it is. I need to study as soon as work’s over.”

          “Gallagher,” Mickey said lowly, and he swore that it was more of a growl than a whine, “it’s been _two weeks_.”

          “I know,” Ian said thickly. “Trust me, I know.”

          “Then what the fuck’s the problem? Get off work. Then come get _me_ off.”

          Ian laughed. “Nice. But I can’t.” At Mickey’s warning, _“Gallagher,”_ Ian rushed on: “Later, okay? Tomorrow.”

          Mickey scoffed. “I ain’t waiting around for your freckled ass forever, fuckhead.”

          “Tomorrow,” Ian repeated. He hesitated, then after a second added, “I—I miss you.”

          Mickey whirled around when he said it, paranoid that somehow, someone had overheard that—as though his voice could somehow carry through the house and to his father’s ears—but when Terry emerged from his room a few moments later, he sauntered into the kitchen without even sparing Mickey a glance.

          Mickey relaxed back into the couch, but his hands had curled into fists. “You say that again, I’ll rip your tongue out of your head,” he threatened.

          Ian ignored the warning completely, sounding too cheerful and not at all frightened when he answered, “See you tomorrow, Mick.”

          “Whatever,” he said. He hit end on the call and threw his phone onto the couch. He retreated to his room when he heard his father coming back out a few minutes later.

 

          Mickey texted Ian the following afternoon, cancelling their plans. Iggy and Colin had a debt they needed backup to settle and Terry threatened to box his ears in if he didn’t come along as extra muscle. He muttered a lot about family values, so Mickey reluctantly threw his phone into his nightstand and followed his siblings and dad out to the car.

          They ended up winning their fight, predictably; one look at four Milkovich boys (plus Mandy, bringing up the rear and smacking her baton against her palm) and the guys had basically surrendered on the spot. Mickey and the others had still roughed them up a little for good measure, but other than a split lip, Mickey came out relatively unscathed.

          He collapsed onto his bed that night, digging his phone out to find three texts from Ian. One from a few minutes after the one Mickey had sent out, which consisted of just a sad-faced emoticon, and another one two hours after that, telling him to call later if he was feeling up to it after his errand. The third was just dirty talk, detailing exactly what kind of perks would come with meeting up later.

          Mickey was weak and horny and maybe had a soft spot for him, so after changing into sweatpants and pulling his comforter over himself, he picked his phone back up and scrolled through his contacts for Ian’s number. It rang for awhile, but just as Mickey was thinking that he should hang up and forget about it, Ian picked up.

          “You coming over?” he asked without preamble. “Because Carl and Lip are both out and my room is pretty soundproof, as long as you promise not to moan _too_ loud this time.”

          “Shut the fuck up, I do not _moan_ ,” Mickey snapped. “I grunt, if anything.”

          He heard Ian stifle a laugh, but he was not as successful with masking the amusement in his tone when he said, “Whatever you say, tough guy. You coming over or what?”

          Mickey was undeniably tempted, but every muscle in his body was tired and he was already half-asleep, and couldn’t imagine actually climbing out of bed. “I don’t wanna run into your family or anything,” he said instead. “This ain’t a meet-the-boyfriend dinner.” He could practically hear Ian perk up, and he hastened to add, “because I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”

          “I know,” Ian said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it. “You don’t have to see anyone, you know. They’re all sleeping anyway. Plus you could just climb in through the window if you really wanted.”

          “Yeah right. I’m not gonna fuckin’ Rapunzel your house just to get laid. Your dick isn’t _that_ special.”

          “First of all, yes it is and we both know it. Second, did you just make a _Rapunzel_ reference?”

          “Shut the fuck up,” Mickey said again. At least Ian couldn’t see his face heat up. “I can’t tonight anyway, I’m too goddamn tired. You wouldn’t believe the assholes we had to go after tonight. Two jackoffs with pistols and their shitty assistant who couldn’t punch worth shit. Mandy ended up distracting their guard dog long enough for us to sneak in back, but shit. Thank Jesus for her tits, or they woulda floored us. Ended up getting both the guns, if you know anyone looking to buy.”

          “I’ll keep that in mind.”

          They ended up talking for ten more minutes, until Mickey’s yawning got disruptive enough for Ian to suggest he get some rest. By the time he hung up and rolled over, shoving his face into his pillow, Mickey barely registered that they had just stayed up talking before bed without phone sex or anything before sleep pulled him under.

 

          They ended up rescheduling three times before they finally managed to get together, a shitty, accidental stretch of celibacy that culminated in Mickey dropping by unannounced to Ian’s place of work and declaring, “Got any slimjims in this shithole?” Ian just grinned and flipped the sign on the door to _Closed_ and led him into the back room, and even though Mickey didn’t steal from the store as much as he used to now that he was regularly fucking the only steady employee, getting his ass pounded in storage felt like one last “fuck you” to the asshole owners who had denied him a job back when he’d needed it for one of his juvie probations.

          Afterwards, Ian grabbed them both sodas from the fridge and settled back in behind the counter. Mickey pretended to look around the Pringles selection while he finished off his drink, but mostly he was just talking to Ian from across the empty store.

          “Anyway, we get Thursday off for some bullshit PTA thing,” Ian was saying, flipping idly through a magazine at the counter. “I got like, a two hour window between helping Debbie set up for daycare and the extra shift I picked up. Don’t look at me like that, we’re all putting in overtime. Carl fucked up the microwave again so we gotta buy a new one.”

          “Why don’t I just meet you back here?” Mickey asked.

          The bell above the door rang out and Mickey redoubled his faux concentration on Pringles while the shopper got his groceries, paid, and left.

          “I can’t keep taking sex breaks,” Ian said as soon as the guy was gone.

          Mickey hesitated, chewing on his lip. He grabbed one of the cans finally and threw it on the counter. Ian looked up from his magazine, startled.

          “You could swing by after work,” Mickey suggested, keeping his eyes carefully averted from Ian’s.

          “I don’t get off til ten,” Ian reminded him, pulling the can towards himself and flipping it over, searching for the barcode. “Plus I gotta do inventory after. It would be late.”

          “You could crash at my place. If you want,” Mickey tacked on hurriedly, eyes focused on where Ian’s hands were scanning his purchase. He chanced a glance at his face, but Ian didn’t seem to be making fun of him, so he held his gaze for a little longer. Mostly Ian just looked surprised, maybe a little gratified.

          “Was I just invited to a sleepover?” he asked.

          “Fuck you if what you were invited to,” Mickey snapped. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend, do whatever you want.”

          Ian looked him up and down appraisingly, then slid the chips back across the counter, pressing some buttons on the register. “I know you’re not,” he said, but in that same tone as the other night. “Here, no charge.”

          “Whatever,” Mickey groused. He snatched up the Pringles and turned to storm off.

          He had just reached out to shove the door open when Ian called out from behind him, “I’ll be there.” Mickey barely paused, just shouldered his way outside and tried to get a handle on his smile the whole way home.

 

          Getting his family out of the house was surprisingly easy. Mandy had plans with her Northside boyfriend, Iggy and Colin were doing collections all night, and Terry was on a run out of town for a few days. All Mickey really had to do was mention a few good parties he knew were going on tonight to make sure that his brothers didn’t come home too early tomorrow, and he was set.

          Ian came over around eight. He threw himself on the couch while Mickey grabbed them both a couple of beers. Mickey was more than a little fascinated with the way he knew how to uncap it with his back teeth, a trick that he’d never been able to master but that Ian made look both easy and unaccountably hot.

          They ended up fighting over what movie to watch, which turned into an argument over which action stars could win in a fight that continued on while Mickey went to grab the pizza rolls out of the oven. If he remembered that that’s what he and Ian had eaten after the first time they had sex, he pretended it was just because that’s pretty much all he _ever_ had when left to fend for himself. Ian shoved a movie into the DVD player while Mickey got settled on the couch, and as soon as the opening credits started rolling, Mickey became acutely aware of just how close they were actually sitting. Thighs touching, glancing at each other from the corner of their eyes—even Mickey could acknowledge that, for all intents and purposes, they were on a date. The weirdest part was that Mickey didn’t really mind—he was _happy_. The hanging out in between was almost as good at the sex. He didn’t really know when that had become true.

          They fucked a lot that night, starting about halfway through the first movie when Ian evidently got bored and moved to straddle him. That transitioned easily into sex on the couch, and they just never really stopped. They kept playing movies while they messed around, at least until they moved to the bedroom and fucked one more time before going to sleep, each wrapped up in covers on their respective sides of the bed.

          In the morning, Mickey woke up first because of the sunlight streaming from between his curtains. He was used to sleeping in the middle of his bed, and the beam from the window hit his face with uncomfortable accuracy where he lay now. He blinked slowly into consciousness far earlier than he would have liked.

          He startled a little at first when his eyes first snagged onto the streak of red beside him, but even as he tensed, ready for a fight, he realized that it was just Ian; he snuffled a little in his sleep and rolled onto his stomach, burrowing closer to the pillow, and Mickey tried to unsuccessfully ignore the burst of affection bubbling up in his stomach. To distract himself, he rolled out of bed and headed for the kitchen to make breakfast.

          He ended up settling on some French toast, letting Ian sleep while it cooked and then dumping the food on a plate, squirting way too much syrup over it, and settling the plate in the middle of the bed. When Ian didn’t immediately stir when Mickey climbed back on top of the mattress, he poked at his ribs until he turned over, batting lazily at the hand at his side and trying to go back to sleep.

          “I made breakfast, shithead,” Mickey said. He crawled over and leaned over Ian where he was pretending to still be asleep, jabbing him in the neck so that he ducked his chin into his chest, trying to curl up into himself. “Ian. Ian!”

          When he continued to be grumbly but otherwise unresponsive, Mickey swung one leg over Ian’s torso, pushing him flat on his back at the same time so that he was straddling his chest. Ian blinked up at him finally, sleepy and confused.

          “What are you doing?” he croaked.

          “Waking you up,” Mickey said matter-of-factly, digging his knees into Ian’s sides. “Come on, get up. I made French toast.”

          “Oh yeah?” Ian craned his neck to see around the boy sitting on top of him, finally spying the food sitting beside them. His eyes opened a little wider, the sleep partially leaving his face as his appetite kicked in. “Alright, fine. I’m up, I’m up,” he relented, shoving at Mickey until he climbed off of him and back onto the other side of the bed.

          It should have been weird, maybe, sitting cross-legged across from each other, completely naked on Mickey’s bed, Ian with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. But it wasn’t. It was just nice.

          They chatted about nothing important while they ate, and Mickey was feeling pretty relaxed and happy by the time Ian shoved the empty plate onto the floor and pinned Mickey down on the bed.

          After they were done with the first round of the morning, they laid back down side-by-side, closer than they’d been in sleep. They didn’t say much. Mickey got up first again after a few minutes, heading into the kitchen to find a beer and maybe some water. Ian followed him out a little while later.

          “You got anyplace to be today?” Mickey asked. He glanced over towards the entrance to the kitchen where Ian was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He still wasn’t wearing anything, had even shed the blanket, and Mickey allowed himself to rake his eyes over Ian’s entire body before meeting his eye.

          Ian smirked a little at how obviously Mickey was checking him out. He pushed off the wall and into the kitchen, grabbing at Mickey’s waist. He had enough time to put his beer down before Ian spun him around and pressed him up against the counter, face too close, body pressed flush against him, not leaving him any room to back up or do much of anything else either.

          “No,” said Ian, digging his fingers into Mickey’s hips. “I have work later, but not until five.”

          Mickey grinned, a kind of half-feral smirk that had Ian pressing a little more insistently against him. Mickey wrapped his hands around Ian’s upper arms, shuffling his legs a little further apart with his knees so that he could properly wedge his thigh in between both of Ian’s.

          “Oh yeah?” he asked, casual as he could. “That mean you uh, have the whole morning free, huh?”

          “Ye— _s_.” The last letter came out on a hiss as Mickey reached down and grabbed at his cock, and from there it was a mess of kissing and half-hearted handjobs as they slowly wended their way into the living room, where Ian pushed Mickey down onto the couch and climbed on top of him, pinning him down but not so hard that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. They slowed down then, kissing languidly and rolling their hips together in an absentminded kind of way, like the tangle of lips and tongues came first and getting off was an unimportant side-mission.

          Mickey was feeling extremely satisfied already by the time Ian started grinding against him in earnest, and the tell-tale bite of his nails in Mickey’s sides had him turning over, thinking he could use a break from making out to get his breath back anyway. He braced himself against the arm of the couch on his elbows while Ian performed a light and cursory prep—Mickey was still pretty stretched out from the night before—before pushing into him in a way that had them both sighing out in a kind of mingled satisfaction and pleasure. Getting his ass fucked probably shouldn’t have made Mickey feel so much like coming home. Some things were just inevitable, he mused while Ian started up a decent rhythm pounding into him, and the whole soulmate thing had never felt quite so absolute and _right_ as it did in that moment. Maybe, Mickey allowed, _maybe_ they really were made for each other in more than just a physical way. Maybe being with Ian was something bigger than a nine-inch dick in his ass. Maybe.

          For awhile, the silence around them had nothing to punctuate it aside from their increasingly ragged breathing and Mickey’s occasional moans. Knowing him in a strictly social sense, Mickey would have predicted that Ian was the louder one in bed, but he was actually fairly quiet in comparison. Mickey didn’t talk much, but Ian often told him (afterwards, while they sat together sharing a cigarette or lay close together in a fashion that didn’t technically qualify as cuddling in Mickey’s sense of the word, so he could allow it) that the noises he made were more than enough, and Ian worked his ass well enough that Mickey didn’t really need dirty talk either.

          They were both so caught up in each other that by the time Mickey’s groans and their panting weren’t the only things breaking the silence anymore, they didn’t notice until it was far too late.

          The front door slammed open, and then there was nowhere to hide—it was just the two of them sprawled over each other on the couch, completely naked, and even Ian pulling out and them both scrambling to put on boxers and grab their clothes couldn’t cancel out the undeniable fact of what they had been doing. All Mickey heard was the door hitting the jamb, and he was already clambering up and away before he even turned to see who it was.

          Of course, because his luck was the absolute worst in the entirety of history, no dramatics, when Mickey vaulted over the couch and started backing up towards the kitchen he was met with the sight of his father, turning red and purple in his rage. Terry let out an inarticulate roar of fury and lunged towards them, but Ian was hot on Mickey’s tail as they skirted the coffee table, keeping as many pieces of furniture between them and Terry as they could. As they backed up further towards the other wall, Terry tried to jump over the table but failed, his foot catching on the back, and he went tumbling forward in a fall that broke the coffee table in an unclean split, splinters flying everywhere, scratching at all of their skins. Terry’s outstretched arm had caught Ian’s leg and toppled him forward; his head hit the edge of a standing lamp as he fell, his arms reaching wildly for Mickey. One hand closed over his wrist and dragged Mickey down too, and his forehead hit the ground squarely. He struggled to roll away just as Terry was getting back to his feet, but his main concern as Terry swung at them at the same time as he was trying to stand—the sight would almost be comical, if not for the way his fist connected to Mickey’s jaw and his foot kicked Ian directly in the stomach—was Ian, still lying on the floor, struggling to rise while Terry was still wailing on him and yelling something that Mickey figured was mixed slurs and profanity, but he could barely hear over the sudden rushing in his ears.

          “Get the fuck off him!” he shouted, and he shoved Terry back. Terry wasn’t balanced enough to catch himself and he tumbled into the mess of broken wood where the table had been, and then Mickey was yelling, “Come on!” and tugging desperately at Ian’s hand. Ian scrambled to his feet the best he could with whatever damage Terry had done to his ribs, and before Terry could get up again they were flying for the front door. It slammed behind them long after they had started sprinting down the street, unwilling to expend the energy to even glance behind them as they ran, terrified that Terry was following them or catching up but not wanting to look back and have the worst confirmed.

          They ran until they literally could not anymore, Ian’s wheezing from his hurt ribs escalating to an alarming level, and Mickey pulled him to a stop finally, worried that he might keep going forever if no one tempered him. They paused to catch their breaths, but the expanse of the open air felt too exposed, and at some point their breathing evened just enough to glance at each other. Without a word they turned and started trudging towards one of the buildings around them. Absently, Mickey realized that he had led them towards the abandoned lot where he sometimes practiced shooting. They headed into a different building than the one he usually frequented, climbing towards the top, silent the whole way up.

          Ian opened the door to the highest floor and ushered Mickey ahead of him, and as Mickey crossed to sit on the ledge at a spot where the wall had fallen away, he noticed that Ian was double-checking that the door was closed. He sat down over the edge and looked back just as Ian leaned a heavy-looking bit of plywood against the door to ensure it was relatively impenetrable, but the calm, methodical way he did it as well as the sad but knowing look he shot in Mickey’s direction as he came to sit beside him made Mickey think that it was more for Mickey’s benefit than his own.

          Mickey glared down at his own lap, but Ian didn’t seem in a rush to break the silence. He just swung his legs over the side of the building, eying Mickey warily until he finally gave in and turned to the boy beside him.

          “You’re bleeding,” was the first thing Mickey said, the words pushing past his lips with difficulty. He reached a hand out to touch the spot on Ian’s temple and noticed his hand was shaking; he wondered when his ragged breathing from running had turned into something else entirely. He dropped his hands back to his lap, but they were both shaking now, he realized, and his breathing, which hadn’t really returned fully to normal the way Ian’s had, picked up again. His vision blurred at the edges where he was staring at his trembling fingers.

          Ian reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but Mickey shied away from the touch. Ian ignored this reaction, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and reeling him in, and Mickey collapsed against his side, hyperventilating in earnest now. He squeezed his eyes shut, because if he was going to be a total mess the least he could do was not cry, but his body didn’t seem to care. He didn’t even really notice that the tears had spilled over because his heart was beating fast enough to hurt his chest and his hearing had tunneled on Ian’s voice, softly shushing him and pressing kisses into his hair, and everything else felt like white noise.

          After about five minutes his breathing started to finally even out, the way it hadn’t in what felt like an hour—probably was, between the sex and the fight and the running and now this, this breakdown or whatever was happening to him. It wasn’t the first time, but Mickey wasn’t used to people seeing him like this, with his eyes wet and his breathing shallow and his entire body trembling, like a string stretched taut to breaking.

          “Are you okay?” Ian asked after Mickey had regained a modicum of control over himself. At least the tears had stopped flowing, although his hands weren’t completely still yet. He hid them in his lap rather than wipe away the wetness on his cheeks, because he might have just cried all over him but Mickey didn’t want Ian to see him shaking.

          “I’m fine,” Mickey said with what sneering indignation he could muster, but it sounded weak even to himself.

          Ian nodded to himself, accepting the lie. He was quiet for a beat before asking, “Does that happen a lot?”

          “Does _what_ happen a lot?” Mickey snapped.

          He was starting to feel a little better, which would have been a relief except it left room for the shame to creep in. If he didn’t feel awful enough, what with his father walking in on them having sex and then being almost directly responsible with Ian getting the shit beat out of him, he now had “broke down like a little bitch” as something to worry about on top of all that. It hadn’t felt like that big of a deal in the moment, but as the last of his shakes slipped away, the embarrassment reared in stronger than ever.

          “Panic attacks,” Ian said matter-of-factly, and it clicked into place in his head.

          Panic attacks. He’d heard of those before, but hadn’t really understood it. But that sounded kind of right: panic was maybe the right word to describe it. He sat up a little straighter, feeling braver. He had a name for it now, for those five or ten minutes of terror and aching sadness that washed over him sometimes, usually after a particularly brutal encounter with his dad but sometimes just when he felt trapped or pushed too hard, and that left him shaking and rocking in his bed. Mickey felt a little better just knowing that, that there was a term for it. He might be weak or soft or whatever, but at least he wasn’t broken.

          “No,” Mickey lied anyway, because he still didn’t want to be vulnerable, even as that little bit of relief settled in his chest like a balloon.

          “It’s okay,” Ian said, reaching for him again, but Mickey shoved his arms away, looking out over the empty lot below them.

          “Fuck off,” he said, but not as harshly as he meant to.

          “It’s _okay_ ,” Ian repeated, “It’s not your fault. It doesn’t make you any less…”

          He didn’t finish the thought, but instead reached out again, this time just for Mickey’s hand, and he grumbled a little but ultimately let Ian wrap both his gigantic freckled hands around one of Mickey’s. Ian smiled a little at the concession. Mickey thought he was going to ruin it by talking more, but Ian seemed content with what he’d said.

          They sat in silence for awhile, holding hands and looking out over the ruined, crumbling buildings. The sky was very blue, Ian very warm. The occasional sound of a car filtered through the relative silence, but the two of them were far removed from the road, and mostly there was nothing. Even their breathing was relatively muted in the wide open space, but Mickey felt safe on top of that building, lifted high and pressed up against Ian’s side. It occurred to him that they were still in just boxers, having dropped their clothes in the earlier fight, but he didn’t care yet. It was just him and Ian, up in the sky.

          He broke the silence first, eyes fixed on where his thumb was playing with one of Ian’s fingers in the small cradle created by where their legs were pressed together.

          “Guess the cat’s out the bag now, huh?”

          Ian turned to look at him, seeming to understand immediately as he gave him a small apologetic smile. “Your dad’s probably already drunk and screaming it to everyone down at the bar,” he said.

          Mickey sighed. “I mean, I guess I don’t really care. Fucking piece of shit’ll get locked up for awhile when the cops see what he did to us. Fighting’s a huge breach of his probation.”

          Ian hummed thoughtfully. “He should be locked up forever,” he said, voice uncharacteristically dark, but when he slid one of his hands out of Mickey’s grasp and into his hair a few minutes later, his touch was soft as ever. He jostled Mickey a little, a sort of half-heartening, half-commiserating gesture, and then leaned over and kissed him once, practically chaste, on the mouth.

          Mickey rolled his eyes, leaning his head against Ian’s shoulder. “Dork.”

          Ian narrowed his eyes playfully, shrugging him off, and before Mickey could stop him Ian had tackled him onto his back. They rolled away from the edge of the building as they play-wrestled, a fight that Mickey ultimately won. He sat up on Ian’s chest, proud, but then Ian started tickling at his sides until Mickey slid off of him. He lashed out and caught Ian in the ribs, and Ian immediately stopped, half-laughing, half-cursing as he clutched at his sides. Mickey immediately remembered that he’d been kicked there quite a few times not two hours ago.

          “Shit, sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and pulling Ian with him. “You okay?” He pressed his hand gently to Ian’s bare side like he could gauge the damage with the pads of his fingers, but Ian just swatted him away, sticking his tongue out.

          “Who’s the dork now?” he said. “Worrying about me like my goddamn keeper.”

          “Shut up,” Mickey said without heat, and he poked at Ian’s side again, making him unleash a shocked laugh even as he flinched. Mickey grinned and did it again. “What else are boyfriends for?”

          It was a stupid, pointless thing to say, relatively meaningless in the grand scheme of the morning, but Ian drew back and smiled at him like a huge dopey puppy when he said it, and Mickey laughed even as Ian pushed him back down on the cement and kissed him reverently, clasping their hands together on the cold floor, and they didn’t stop kissing for a very long time.

 

-      –     –

 

          The weeks following the fight with Terry were blurs of relative bliss for Mickey, with only a few moments of irritation to dampen his spirits.

          For one, after finally leaving that abandoned lot with Ian a few weeks ago, Mickey had known almost immediately that his big secret was out in the open. Even if Terry hadn’t told the entire town within the hour through a series of drunken rants, walking mostly naked through the neighborhood with an equally undressed boy by his side made the rumors fly well enough on its own. Terry had been arrested hours before Mickey even reappeared, though, his residual anger leaking over into a bar fight that got a little too rough even for the Alibi, and Mickey’s later recount of that morning to the police only extended Terry’s sentence.

          The only other source of annoyance to Mickey was that he spent a lot of the first few days telling various people, “Yeah, it’s true. You got anything to say to me?” with the meanest look he could muster. They usually didn’t, but there were a few people who got mouthy, and Mickey had no problem making examples out of them for anyone else who thought that him being out gave them a free pass to start shit. After the first week or so the number of people who had a problem with his recently-exposed secret dwindled, and he relaxed a little.

          Mickey might have been worried about Ian and how he wanted to proceed, publicly at least, but from what little Ian had told him of it, the whole neighborhood already knew who else had been in that living room with him. Apparently Carl had gotten to use the family baseball bat a few times, but at least Mickey hadn’t had to defend his honor or something. The ensuing jokes around the block would have been excruciating.

          By the time summer rolled around, Mickey was pretty happy a significant amount of the time. He didn’t get panic attacks as often anymore, first of all. They still surprised him occasionally, but it wasn’t as bad without Terry there to set him off about once a month.

          Ian came over more often than not, especially now that school was out, and hung out with Mickey and Mandy and sometimes even the other Milkovich brothers. Although Mickey’s siblings were shocked at first (Mandy for one had been icy towards them for a week or so for fucking behind her back and because neither of them had told her that he’d found his soulmate, but she had ultimately forgiven them when Ian showed up with apology nitrous and Mickey let her take two joints off him for free) they were ultimately okay with it all, ribbing at Mickey the day they found out he was the little spoon at night but not really being assholes about the whole thing. Ian spent a lot of his summer on their couch drinking beer, and even came to help pack the day that Mandy moved out, off to live with her rich boyfriend now that she was old enough. She swore that she was going to finish out high school in the Northside, but Mickey had a sneaking suspicion that she was more likely to drop out anyway—she had been at high risk of it here, he didn’t see why crossing the Chicago River should change that. He could just see her holed up in a cushy apartment, scamming and scheming the rich schmucks of the Northside until her boyfriend came back from work. Maybe she’d even make dinner and play some facsimile of a housewife. The thought made Mickey smile even as she stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek goodbye before he caught her up in a tight hug.

          Ian slept over a lot, since Mickey’s house was a little quieter than his own. Even when he didn’t and Mickey found himself falling asleep by himself, he often didn’t wake up alone.

          One random Tuesday when Ian had to work until close and get up early the next morning, he texted Mickey to say he couldn’t come over as planned. Mickey grunted from where he was watching TV and threw his phone back down as soon as he’d read the message.

          “What’s up bro?” Iggy asked from where he was sprawled on the other side of couch. He rolled his head to look at Mickey’s grumpy expression, then his face cracked into a grin. “Your boyfriend can’t come over tonight or somethin’?”

          “Shut your fat fucking face,” Mickey said, flipping him off and getting up. “Shouldn’t you be at your fiancée’s beck and call or something?”

          “Eat me,” Iggy responded, disinterested now and turning back towards the TV. He had gotten engaged a few months ago, and Mickey was _almost_ positive that the proposal had happened before the pregnancy, but it was hard to tell.

          Mickey smirked at his victory and snatched up his phone, going to grab a beer from the fridge before enclosing himself in his bedroom. He had upgraded to the bigger room after Joey had officially moved out a few years ago (however much he still crashed on their couch), but he hadn’t fully appreciated the breadth of the double bed before he was sharing it almost every night. Now it felt even larger than usual as he rolled onto his side, the other half uncomfortable in its emptiness. Refusing to feel weird about it, Mickey grabbed Ian’s unofficial pillow and switched it for his own, so that he was briefly surrounded by Ian’s scent as he reclined back and reached for the guns and ammo magazine he had been reading lately.

          He eventually tired of it and just shut the lights and flopped onto his stomach, scrolling through the internet on his phone instead. At some point, after the time had crept past midnight, a banner notification popped up on the top of his phone above the article he was reading. It was a short text from Ian, saying he would see him tomorrow and ending with _Goodnight_.

          Mickey had stopped protesting Ian’s goodnight texts awhile ago; he insisted that he didn’t need that kind of emotional lovey-dovey shit, but Ian hadn’t let up. He always sent one on the nights that neither of them stayed over at the other’s house, sometimes just a simple one, sometimes a longer message, sometimes just a bunch of emoticons that probably meant something but that Mickey didn’t bother decoding.

          Now, he swiped down on the little notification so that he could send a quick text back. He didn’t always respond, but he did tonight, shooting back a short message that consisted only of two words: _Night, shithead._ He shut his phone off then and put it on his bedside table, but it went off again almost as soon as he did, and he peered through the dark at his screen.

          Ian had sent him back a little smiley face emoji. Mickey rolled his eyes and pulled the covers over his head to hide his slight silly smile, settling in to sleep.

 

          He was woken about an hour later by a soft creaking outside of his room. For a minute, his heartrate crept up to an uncomfortable level—his first thought was that his father had broken out of jail and was coming to murder him in his sleep, and he was fleetingly grateful that Ian hadn’t come over—but then as his bedroom door squeaked open and Mickey tensed, peering out from beneath his blanket and prepared to spring up and put up a fight, he recognized the dark blue socks that the intruder was wearing and let out a huffy breath, settling back down.

          Ian crept over to the far side of the bed and stood there for a second—Mickey didn’t turn around but he thought Ian might be undressing, because the next second he was slipping under the covers and sidling up to Mickey’s back, and he could feel the bare skin of his chest against his body.

          As Ian wound his arms around Mickey, he kissed the back of his neck and whispered, “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

          “What the fuck are you doing here?” Mickey grumbled, even as he reached back to grab at Ian’s thigh and hitch it over his own. Ian went with it easily, tangling their legs together beneath the covers.

          He didn’t answer for a second, and Mickey was about to prod further when Ian admitted, “Couldn’t sleep without you.”

          Mickey snorted, turning to peer at Ian through one eye before getting comfortable again, shutting his eyes. His eyes were very green, even in the dark.

          “Loser,” Mickey muttered, but even as he said it, his hand found the one of Ian’s that was slung over his chest and he curled them together on the sheets.

          Ian chuckled quietly and pressed another kiss to his back, evidently used to this by now, how Mickey had to offset every nice gesture with a harsh comment, just in case anyone thought he _actually_ felt something for the boy curled around him on his bed at two in the morning. “Good _night_ , Mick.”

          “’Night, Ian.”

          As he settled back to sleep, Mickey wondered if he’d ever get over this, the electricity that thrilled through his skin at every point of contact between him and Ian, like lightning through his nerves. He wondered if he’d ever have a moment where he didn’t want his hands splayed across Ian’s chest, his tongue on his mouth and neck and every other inch of his skin, if he would ever have any brief respite from the overwhelming desire to let Ian swallow him whole.

          He didn’t think so, somehow. Some things were just fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoo thank for giving a shit this long about these losers. come hang out with me on tumblr! fuku-up.tumblr.com


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